


Instruments Of Inquisition

by inamac



Series: The Valkyrie Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Branding, Death (apparent), Mindfuck, Multi, Object Insertion, Rape (apparent), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-24
Updated: 2009-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger is is one of Lucius Malfoy's prisoners. She has information and he intends to use Muggle methods to extract it. But will he succeed? And what about the other occupants of the dungeon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instruments Of Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ 'Prisonerfest', as a gift for Luciusmistress. Nothing herein is what it seems, though it may be triggery for any of the AO3 archive warnings. Very dark fic (with a hopeful ending - if you squint). This should take place sometime during Chapter 23 of DH - though I've fiddled with the timelines - assume profligate use of memory charms and timeturners - or call it AU...

Pale fingers brush over black iron. He whispers their names in his mind: the Scavenger's Daughter, the Iron Maiden, the Scold's bridle, the Heretic's Fork, the Cat's Paw, the Pear….

And he remembers, because he has seen it in his Pensieve, how these things hold and restrain, crush and rend and tear Mudblood flesh and bone.

Wizards have always used more subtle methods, but these things still have their uses. It is difficult to intimidate with a wand, to terrify with a phial of Veritaserum. These things instil fear, and obedience and respect. And it requires no more magical skill than a squib could command to shew forth the instruments of the torture.

Nevertheless, first one must demonstrate that using these things holds no fear for the torturer. He wonders, as he lifts the glowing iron from the burning flesh and holds it in front of the bound Mudblood boy's terrified eyes, whether the boy even considers that this is no easier for him.

"Read it," he demands, voice cold as the iron is hot.

The boy has given his name — uttering it as if it were some sort of Muggle ritual. Name, occupation, and Blood Status. Disappointing, really, those are the first details that these things are designed to ascertain. "Read it, Dean Thomas, artist, Muggleborn."

Dean swallows and focuses on the glowing iron. It is easy enough to see, despite the dimness of the dungeon, and easier to read – the letter is symmetrical, unreversed, though elaborately curled.

"M," he says finally. And then, defiantly, "M for Mudblood!"

"In this case, M for Malfoy." Now Lucius is calm, the boy anticipates no mercy from him and will look for none. He plunges the iron back into the brazier. "But if you wish to consider it a reminder of your blood status you have my permission to do so."

"He doesn't need your _permission_ to do anything."

He has almost forgotten the girl – had thought her cowed by his threats – but this demonstration is for her benefit, it is as well to ensure that she is watching. Nevertheless, he does not turn at her outburst, does not allow her the satisfaction of knowing that she is the true focus of his attention. Instead, he bends over the breaking-wheel to which the boy is bound, gathering in one hand the length of chain attached to the front ring of the iron collar the boy is wearing and pulling his head around to meet his eyes. "You need my permission to do anything. To speak, to think, to breathe." He does not voice a spell or raise the wand he is holding, he is too accomplished a wizard for that, but Dean finds himself struggling for breath, choking on his own tongue. Lucius holds him for a few moments, then releases the chain, allowing the boy's head to fall back to the scarred wood with a thud that echoes around the chamber.

"So, tell me," he asks, when the harsh breathing stops. "What does the brand stand for?"

"M… Malfoy." It is a sob. There are tears in the boy's eyes, but Lucius does not mistake them for anything other than what they are - the pain of the burn has finally registered on his nerve centres.

"Good. Don't forget it. You are my property, Dean Thomas, bought, paid for, and marked."

Now Lucius turns to survey his second captive. He does not need to ask the name of this one — she has been a thorn in his side since first they met, years ago, in a Diagon Alley bookshop.

"Miss Granger." He says it lightly, as he did on that occasion, with the fractional raise of his eyebrow that conveys contempt masked by curiosity. "Are you so anxious to share your companion's status?"

"You can't own people."

"My dear Miss Granger, my family has owned house-elves for five hundred years – or do you no longer contend that they are 'people'? Do make up your mind."

"I… you…"

Whatever she expects of him, it is clearly not chop-logic. Not in this place. It is all too easy to wrong-foot her with psychological torture when she anticipates physical. Not that physical torture is not necessary. Severus has made that clear. Hermione Granger cannot not be allowed to leave this place unmarked.

"Tongue-tied, Miss Granger? I cannot permit that."

"I won't tell you where Harry is," she states defiantly.

Lucius lifts the last of the torture devices from the table where they have been displayed and leans back over the boy, though his words are for the girl. "I do not care where he is, Mudblood. Even had he been with you when you were apprehended, he would be long gone by now. No." He pauses to dip the device into the vat of oil standing beside the brazier. It emerges slick and dripping. Menacing, even though neither of these children can know what it is, or what it means. "What I want to know, girl, is where he has been. Or, more importantly, why."

"Don't tell him, 'Mione." Dean has recovered a little from the branding. Lucius wonders whether, since the boy is an artist, a threat to his hands would be more effective? But no, Granger might not break before he wreaks irreparable damage – thumbscrews and breaking irons are not precise instruments. He ignores the interjection, holding the device up to the light, allowing a drop of the oil coating to fall onto the base of the boy's spine and trickle down into his crack.

"She will tell me," he says, "or I will use this. First on you, and then—" He does not complete the threat, his glance across at the chained Hermione is enough. "Do you know what this is, Miss Know-It-All?"

She gives a fractional shake of her head — he would have missed it had he not anticipated it. Yes, he thinks, she _will_ break. She has imagination. The old torturers knew what they were about in designing such instruments and in advising that they should be demonstrated to the prisoners.

"No? You disappoint me. I do hope that you will not make a habit of it. Well, this is called The Pear — from the shape, you see. At least from the shape when it is closed. It is designed to slip into the orifices of the body — those which can accommodate it: the mouth, the anus, the vagina…. And then, if the recipient or his friends are still not inclined to speak—" There is a metallic sound as he triggers the device. The iron casing splits open along its four seams, an obscene fruit bursting to reveal a spiked metal core.

He is right about her imagination. She screams. "No! You can't!"

"Oh, I assure you that I can. In fact," he leans over his victim. Tied face-down as he is, the boy has been unable to see his demonstration, but the girl's scream must have unnerved him. "In fact, he seems quite eager to receive my little toy." He reverses the trigger and drops the closed device back into the oil, allowing it to coat his fingers as he does so.

"Harry Potter is searching for something," he says, still speaking to the girl, though the boy's flesh under his hand shudders as he presses his oiled thumbs into the crack, spreading him for violation. "I want to know what it is."

"I can't…"

"Can not — or will not? I think the latter, Hermione. And I assure you, before this night is over you will tell me everything I want to know. If not for your own sake, then for another's." A vicious twist of his thumb breaches the boy, who cries out breathlessly. Lucius Malfoy knows how narrow is the gap between pain and pleasure and how to hold another on that thin blade's edge.

"Her… Hermione…" Dean is panting now, body responding to the rhythmic push and withdrawal of Lucius' fingers. "Don't… don't tell… the bastard… anything… aaaaah!"

Lucius changes the angle of his penetrating fingers, and Dean's response to the stimulation of his prostate is hampered by his position, strapped to the Wheel. Tears stain his face, and he himself does not know whether it is from pain or shame at his arousal. "I'm not… not worth betraying…."

"Ah." Malfoy looks curious. He moves his hand from its task, wipes the oil from his fingers, and picks up the wand. "So, the Mudblood admits his worthlessness. Then let us dispose of this trash and move on."

Again, his spell is wordless, but green fire envelops the boy. He screams once, and then his body relaxes, lifelessly limp, on the wheel.

Hermione's own scream raises echoes. Lucius does not appear to hear it as he turns away from his victim and makes a second gesture with his wand, releasing her chains and levitating her across the room to lower her face-down over a padded trestle. It is not a normal part of the furnishing of this room, intended as it is for pleasure rather than pain. He has brought it from Malfoy Manor specifically for this purpose, but he does not expect her to realise that. A second spell engages straps that hold her naked body in place, pale flesh gleaming with sweat despite the coldness of the dungeon. Her hair falls over her face, obscuring it. This will not do. He employs his wand again, and it falls away in one great swathe, leaving her skull naked and vulnerable. It is a pity, but hair will grow back, and he needs her naked and vulnerable to what he will do.

Now he crosses the dungeon and reaches out to touch her, running his hand down over her back, from skull to coccyx, feeling every bump of her spine and shiver of revulsion. Her flesh is unmarked as yet. He wonders, as his hand moves lower to turn and expose her thigh, whether she is fortunate enough to have escaped the battles unscathed, or whether she is such a mistress of healing charms. He hopes the latter. Anyone else in the Dark Lord's employ would have delighted in raising weals on that flesh, in watching the blood run. There are whips and chains enough hung on the walls here, and they are not unused.

Satisfied with her position and its security, Lucius again sets down the wand and crosses to the brazier where the branding iron is still heating. He reaches for the long wooden handle, turning the iron in the coals to ensure that the heat is even, then lifts it carefully to press it fleetingly onto the girl's exposed thigh.

There is no sound. The gasp of pain is lost in the crackle of the burning coals, and Lucius knows that her anticipation has given way to shock that he would do this, despite the fact that she watched him demonstrate his intentions on her friend.

The metal touches flesh for only a second. His intention is to mark, not maim. Hermione watches him through tear-filled eyes as he returns the iron to the brazier, and she cannot believe that it is not still pressed, searingly, to her thigh. He was right in his speculation that she can resist magically assisted persuasion, but this is Muggle torture, and she will remember this moment to her death.

Which may be soon. She must have no illusions on that score.

He returns too quickly, leaning over her to examine the wound. Ropes of white flesh are sloughing away from the burn already. He traces the edge of the mark with his fingers, then moves them over her thigh and between her legs. She moans, telling herself that it is in pain and fear — as it is. She is certain that he has used a spell, though—why else would she become wet for Lucius Malfoy? It must be some dark magic that guides his fingers over her clit, pinching her to an arousal that she does not want. She bites her lip, conscious that the grey eyes are watching her, analysing every moment of his torture. His smile is chilling as he removes his fingers from her pulsing cunt to touch her mouth, mingling her juices with the first trace of blood to be shed in this chamber for a hundred years.

"So, Mudblood, you are already wet for it. Do you want me to test my little toy on you – or are you ready to tell me now what I wish to know?"

"There isn't…"

His hand moves swiftly from her mouth to her throat, choking her. "Dumbledore gave Potter a task." It is a statement. "Something that my son, and Snape, prevented the old Muggle-loving wizard from carrying out himself. I want to know what it is."

His fingers move enough to allow her air.

"Ask Snape then!" she spits.

He smiles again, lazy, reminiscent. "Oh, I have," he whispers into her ear, breath moving against her naked skull. "It seems that Dumbledore did not even trust his tame spy with that knowledge. But he trusted Potter. And Potter trusts you. So, what is Potter seeking? Some spell to defeat the Dark Lord? A forbidden text? An enchanted weapon?"

"I… No."

He releases her and takes up the wand again, glancing at the broken body across the room. "Hmm. It seems that I may have disposed of the trash too soon. Well, no matter. If you will not speak for a friend, perhaps you will do so for an enemy. _Lumos_!"

The spell shatters the shadows, and she sees what she had expected, a figure hung by chained wrists to a beam running the length of the room. Her gasp of shock is not at the sight, but at the identity of the man thus revealed.

Severus Snape.

Lucius does not betray his delight at her reaction. He intends the revelation to shock. Severus Snape, in chains, and at the mercy of a known Death Eater. "Oh, yes," he says, stressing the sibilants as the Dark Lord would. "I know about the spy Dumbledore planted in our midst. Did you think that he would remain undetected for long?" He flicks the wand, and the loose robe that Severus is wearing is ripped from collar to hem, falling back to expose a white thigh marked with the same damning M that scars her own body – blood red against sallow flesh. Snape looks up at his captor, black eyes unfathomable.

"This is unworthy of you, Malfoy. A true wizard would use Veritaserum to obtain such information."

"And who would brew it for me, Severus? You? But how could I trust any potion from your treacherous hands? No, in this case Muggle methods are surer. The question is…" He plunges his hand into the vat of oil, withdrawing the device he dropped there earlier. Witchlight gleams off the metal. "—Which of you shall I use it on… first?" He raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Miss Granger? She is already wet for it, Severus. Who would have thought such a studious little miss would have such delightful responses? I would hate to disappoint her." He moves slowly toward the hanging man, holding out the thing on the palm of his hand, like an obscenely bloated Prophecy Globe. Impassive grey eyes meet shadowed black. "But I think that you would appreciate it more."

Hermione is forced to watch as her captor places his free hand on that marked thigh, caressing as he moves around behind the other man. Snape makes a sound that she cannot believe originates in a human throat as Lucius forces the slick device into his unwilling body.

"I will leave you both to think on this," he says. "I have some business with the Minister. When I return, I do hope that one of you will have decided to tell me what I wish to know." He swirls his cloak around his shoulders, picks up stick and gloves, and Disapparates.

With his departure the room is plunged into darkness. But not into silence. Hermione can hear Severus breathing; shallow and painfully at first, then more deeply, as his will asserts itself over the pain he must be feeling. Her own thigh is throbbing sorely, and she attempts to ignore it, taking refuge in seeking knowledge.

"Professor Snape? Are you—"

The voice that cuts her off is comforting in its acerbity. "I do hope, Miss Granger, that you are not going to end that sentence with any enquiry about my health at this moment."

"I'm sorry. I thought you were a Death Eater. Are you really a spy for Dumbledore?"

"You heard Malfoy. I would hardly be in this predicament if I were high in his regard or that of his Lord. Yes, Miss Granger, I am still carrying out the task Dumbledore set for me."

"Then… you know about the Horcruxes. Have you any idea what the others are? Or where? And the Deathly Hallows?"

She hears him take a deep breath and tries not to think of the pain that might have prompted it. At last he summons the energy to speak again, if without inflexion. "Dumbledore had the Elder Wand. I assume Potter's cloak is the Hallow-cloak. And I understand now why Albus was so badly wounded. It takes considerable power to destroy a Horcrux."

"Yes. Harry used the basilisk fang to destroy the diary in first year – before anyone knew what it was. We're looking for the other four, but…."

"Miss Granger, I do not think that we should be speaking of this. As long as Potter is safe, our task is to keep Dumbledore's plans from the Death Eaters. At any cost."

"But…"

"Enough."

Silence falls. After an immeasurable amount of time light returns, and with it, their nemesis.

Lucius has shed the severe formal robes that he wore to his appointment at the Ministry. Now he is clad in a loose silk gown that flows around his figure as he strides across the chamber to run a hand down Snape's flank, lingering over the curlicues of the sanguine **M** mark before touching the base of the object protruding from the man's arse. The hanging man shivers like a nervous horse. "Very nice, Severus," he whispers. "Who would have expected that you could be so… accommodating. I wonder, should I trigger it now? Or should we play a little first? Which would best release Miss Granger's tongue?"

Hermione watches as Snape lifts himself a little by the wrist chains to meet Lucius' eyes.

"Please…" No one but himself will know that his tone exactly duplicates the last words that Dumbledore said to him.

Lucius smiles. "Play, then," he says, moving behind Snape to grip the slick metal and pull it, dripping, from the younger man's body. He drops it carelessly and pauses for a moment, looking down. "Mmmm. Such a beautifully stretched hole, Severus. It seems a pity not to use it."

Snape is still breathing hard from the pain of the device's removal. "Lucius—" he manages as the other man splits the front seam of his robe with a gesture and frees his hard member, and then, "N—oh!"

"Yes," Lucius moans as he plunges his hand into Snape's hair and his cock into his body. There is a long moment when both men are absolutely still. Then Snape echoes the moan, and his head falls back, exposing his long length of throat to Lucius' predatory mouth. The witchlight paints the scene in stark contrasts, black and white, light and shadow. Lucius has pulled Snape's head back over his own shoulder, exposing the jut of his chin, foreshortening the length of his nose, bleaching the sallow skin, so that the man looks almost beautiful in the grip of what must be agony. The white fall of Lucius' own hair masks his face as he fastens his lips on the taut line of muscle and sinew and sweeps his tongue from ear to collar-bone, where he grips with his teeth. They look more like lovers than victim and torturer.

Then Lucius moves his hips, and a sound halfway between a moan and a scream is torn from Snape's lips.

"Oh, yes." Lucius withdraws, then plunges in again, changing his angle. And this time it is a cry of astonishment.

"Please. Stop." The sob comes not from Lucius' victim, but from Hermione.

To her astonishment Lucius does stop. Or at least stills, still buried to the hilt in Snape's arse. He lifts his head to gaze at her over Snape's shoulder.

"Miss Granger? Still with us? So stubborn." He turns his head and whispers into Snape's ear. The dark head bows, submissively, and Lucius smiles. "Very well. If you are so insistent on holding your tongue, you are no good to me."

He shakes the wand from the sleeve of his robe and gestures with it, as he did earlier when silencing Dean. Again green fire flares in the chamber as the spell strikes Hermione, silencing her before her scream reaches her lips. Snape, however, cries out, clenching hard around his abuser. Come splatters on the flagstones. Lucius drops the wand, sets his teeth into Snape's shoulder, and ruts frantically, until he finally empties himself into his spent captive.

***

"Lucius?" It is barely a whisper, but Snape's dark baritone is thick with concern. "Lover? You need to release these chains now. You did very well."

Snape feels Lucius' sigh of relief through his whole body. He is carrying most of their combined weight on the chains and the balls of his feet, but the stress of these last few hours is only physical. A bath and a few healing spells will restore him. Lucius has been torturing two children the same age as his own son. There are no spells or potions that can heal those scars.

He feels the other man slip, at last, from his body, and then, at a word, the chains are released. He drops his arms and turns to embrace Lucius, taking the opportunity to place his own kiss on the blond's throat. "I'm sorry."

From somewhere, Lucius summons a weak grin. "I should be saying that to you. Are you really all right, Severus?"

"I assure you, if I had had any objections, I would have voiced them." This time his mouth covers Lucius' in a kiss that is more convincing than any words. It is only when he is satisfied by the response that he breaks contact. "You had better check the children. The green fire was very convincing. For a moment, even I thought you'd used the Killing Curse."

Lucius releases himself from the embrace, retrieves the fallen wand, and crosses the chamber to examine the two bodies. "Mother had a weakness for showy effects. It is simple enough to add them to a wordless _Ennervate._" His eyes are suddenly bleak. "Burning them though – that could not be faked."

"It was necessary." Snape is still rubbing sensation back into his wrists, watching the other man as he releases the prisoners, levitating the unconscious bodies carefully onto a thick mattress in one corner of the room.

When Lucius is satisfied that Dean and Hermione are sleeping in the closest that the room can provide to comfort, he returns to Snape, laying a caressing hand flat on the other man's thigh. "This was very convincing." He traces the curls of the tattoo with a gentle finger. "My mark on you."

Severus slides his own hand over the corresponding place on Lucius' body where twin snakes etched in magic and ink in the shape of the letter **S** writhe and kiss on otherwise unblemished skin. "Just as well that they did not see my mark on you," he observes.

"No." Suddenly, Lucius pulls Severus close into a hard embrace. "Severus, don't ever ask me to do that again. Torturing children. Gods! This bloody war. Such a mess…."

Snape cannot see his face, but he can feel the dampness of tears on his cheek. He returns the embrace, smoothing the older man's hair, murmuring endearments until his breathing returns to normal. These last hours have been hard for Lucius. For all his ruthless reputation in the boardroom, he has never translated threat into physical action. Even in the Ministry raid, he had been a commander, not a soldier. "Sssh," he whispers. "The hard part is over." He seeks for something to break Lucius' focus on the children and finds it in his own discomfort. "Though you might have used a slightly smaller one of our toys on me. And more oil."

It works. Lucius gives a half-smile. "You said that I should be convincing."

"You were. Very."

"I… I wasn't sure how much they could see…."

Snape feels Lucius relax a little in his arms, and the fingers on his thigh tighten. "Hermione saw more than enough to convince her," he says. "Your reputation as an utter bastard is safe." He feels a real smile on the back of his neck as Lucius presses a second kiss there and begins to lick and nibble his way down his spine, punctuating the stimulation with a question.

"Do you think—" The words become more breathless and broken as Lucius' descent continues. "—that it would ruin my reputation—" The lips reach the curve of his buttocks. "—If I promise—" Snape's own breath is coming short now. The tip of Lucius' tongue probes his crack, and Snape cannot help but clench against the slick, slippery, working muscle. It is withdrawn, briefly, but only for long enough to allow Lucius to finish his sentence. "—To kiss it…." The last word must be 'better,' but it is lost in the pre-orgasmic pleasure of that tongue laving over the furl of flesh above his entrance and then plunging inside.

Snape reaches out blindly for the nearest support and finds it in the mount to which Hermione was bound. The hard leather is familiar under his hands. His shift of position brings a growl from Lucius, kneeling amid his pooled robes on the hard flagstones, and renewed assault on his arse. The grip that stops any further movement will leave fingertip bruises for days.

Steadied now by the mount, Snape submits, relaxing and opening to Lucius' ministrations. His lover has a talented tongue, though he does not often employ it thus, and Snape recognises their mutual need to atone for what has been done this night. His first violation was a necessity born of deceit. This, he thinks, as Lucius replaces his tongue with a potion-slicked finger, will be for pleasure, born of love. And then he stops thinking as his partner's other hand squeezes his balls and strokes along his shaft, the finger within him curls, and sweet, sweet orgasm claims him.

Moments later (although it feels to them both like an eternity), Snape descends from the place to which Lucius has sent him, to find himself more firmly draped over the mount, with Lucius' weight atop him, Lucius' lips again on the nape of his neck, and Lucius' come mixed with his own on his thighs. He gives a deep, contented sigh.

"Lucius?"

"Mmmm?"

"Up. We have to clear this place and return the prisoners to the Manor before He returns."

"Slave-driver." Lucius' tone is amused as he backs off his lover and bends to pick up his discarded robe. The conjured witchlight has vanished from the chamber, but the glow of the brazier paints warm highlights on his naked skin. The scars from Azkaban have yet to fade, and the shadows still run a little too deeply along his ribs and collar-bones, and in the new lines of tension on his face but he is still, at least to Snape's eyes, beautiful and desirable. His comment, though ironic, holds some truth. Since Azkaban, Snape has been the dominant partner is their relationship – everywhere save in bed. It is not a role that he relishes. Years of teaching and spying, of dominating children and manipulating wizards like chess pieces have made him weary of the game. He hopes that this plot will be his last. With an inward sigh, he straightens himself and kisses Lucius on the lips.

"When this is over you can be the slave-driver," he promises. "Now, what did you do with my wand?"

"Ah." Guilt flashes across Lucius' face. "I think I must have dropped it when I…."

"Got carried away?" Snape finishes lightly, retrieving the wand from beneath the brazier where it has rolled. Of all the humiliations that the Dark Lord heaped on his followers, the taking and destruction of Lucius' wand has hit hardest. Snape will not now berate him for his carelessness with the borrowed wand. It was necessary for Lucius to have one for this charade, and they have used each other's wands frequently enough for his to respond to his partner's will. He casts an all too familiar cleaning spell and renews the _Lumos_ charm before crossing to see to the prisoners.

"Yes," Lucius agrees, accepting the implied absolution. He watches as Snape leans over the youngsters, passing his wand over their bodies, healing the brands and the chafe marks of the chains and straps with which they were bound, to invisibility. "I take it that we got what we wanted. The girl did tell you?"

"She had no idea that she was telling me anything that I didn't already know." For an instant, anger shades Snape's eyes. "Things that Dumbledore should never have kept from me. Harry Potter and his friends are searching for Horcruxes."

Lucius frowns. "A Horcrux? Is that how the Dark Lord survived? I didn't think that the knowledge survived beyond the old families."

"Horcruxes," Snape corrects. "More than one. He has killed enough to split his soul several times. They are looking for four of the things. They have already destroyed at least one." He meets the grey eyes. This is, perhaps, the hardest part of what he has learned. "The first one was the diary – the one that was used to open the Chamber of Secrets."

What colour there is has drained from Lucius' face. He sits on the end of the bench, scattering the laid out torture implements. "I see." He takes a deep breath. Much of the past years now make sense to him. The Dark Lord had entrusted him not only with a book, but with a part of his soul. And he had been instrumental in its being destroyed. He knows now that there had been no chance of redeeming that error. He and his family had been expendable from the moment that he had dropped that cursed book into Ginny Weasley's cauldron. Voldemort has been playing with him. And although it has been destroyed, there are still others? His eyes are bleak when they again meet Snape's "He is unkillable, then."

"The Prophecy didn't think so. Neither did Dumbledore. Potter is the key."

"Then Potter must be protected." Now Lucius' smile is ironic. "How convenient that we have similar instructions from the Dark Lord."

And Snape relaxes. Irony has always been Lucius' armour against the nightmare of enforced service to the Dark Lord. That he dons it now is some indication that he accepts the necessity of what they have just done.

"Yes." Lucius looks around at the chamber. He used considerable charm on the Muggle Heritage Minister to get the use of this place. Torture chambers are rare even in the Muggle world and unknown to wizards. He shakes his head. "They believed they were in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. One moment's reflection would have demonstrated the unlikelihood of that assumption – English manor houses are not known for their dungeons. The most I can muster is a couple of priest holes – which have proved remarkably useful of late. I believe that I may still have a copy of Corat's _Liber Immortalia_ somewhere. It has a chapter on the creation and destruction of a Horcrux."

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> This belongs in the 'Valkyrie' universe - one day I may write some linking stuff on Lucius and Severus' attempt to get out from under. It is also the second of the three fics inspired by my trip to the Tower of London to gather location info for Off Book (qv). I admit that when I wandered into the instruments of torture section I never expected to be so inspired (no one expects the Spanish Inquisition). Don't hold your breath for the Huw Draper story...


End file.
